


Rebuild all Your Ruins

by Nori



Series: Finding Guardians [2]
Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Fluff, Gamer AU - Freeform, Gen, M/M, Meet-Cute, POV Multiple, YAY FRIENDSHIP, and internet crushes, because bucky's got his own goddamn story, because i don't like writing sad things lmfao, i love dialogue!!, steve's quiet pastel depression, this is like shrunkyclunks but without bucky
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-16
Updated: 2017-02-13
Packaged: 2018-08-15 09:07:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 9,706
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8050411
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nori/pseuds/Nori
Summary: Steve Rogers vs. Dating: Gamestop Edition. Companion piece to Matchmaking.





	1. Steve buys an Xbox

**Author's Note:**

> This is directly connected to the first chapter of Matchmaking. I wanted to post another chapter of that this week, but I realized that despite knowing where to start and how to end, I've got no middle planned. So instead of that, I bring you some Steve. I'll probably update this with more Steve and/or other folk's POVs periodically. I've got a few plans. 
> 
> I'm really unsure of this whole piece tbh but the image of Steve being awkward in a Gamestop is what got me started on Matchmaking so I thought I should post it anyway. Shrug. 
> 
> Title from Led Zeppelin's Immigrant Song, which featured in the live action Destiny launch trailer.

Steve wouldn’t call himself an expert on modern technology, but he’s certainly at least as comfortable with it as your average American. Maybe even more so, in some cases, given the wild shit Tony likes to throw in his face. Smartphones, touchscreens, microwaves - Steve’s mastered them all. Not that he’s necessarily forthcoming with this information. Nothing warms the cockles of his old heart quite like pulling one over on everyone he knows.

Everyone but Natasha anyway. She’d figured out his game within weeks, but instead of giving him up, she’d become his partner in crime. “Oh Steve,” she might sigh, “you have to unlock the screen before you can use it” or “the camera is on the other side of the phone, Steve” or “you don’t need to sign your name on all your texts, old man,” with a wry smirk. He might huff indignantly or blink wide, innocent eyes or grumble about technology and darn kids these days. It works like a goddamn charm. 

It’s hilarious, on the surface. Steve does not think about it deeply. If he did, he’d have to come to terms with the fact that almost everyone who knows him thinks he’s stupid. They think he’s lived in the 21st century for years now and hasn’t picked up a goddamn thing about it. They see him coming and think ‘here comes the relic - maybe we should tell him that music isn’t just on _records_ anymore!’ As if he’s not isolated enough without their help. Except Steve doesn’t think about it deeply, so his game is still hilarious.

Sam had been something of a godsend for Steve. The jig had been up the moment Nat helpfully explained what “lol” meant and Steve had twisted his mouth into an “O” and nodded seriously. Sam’s eyes had narrowed and he’d jabbed a finger at him. “I’m onto you,” he’d hissed. “I know your game Steve Rogers.” Steve hadn’t even realized how badly he’d needed someone other than Nat to figure him out like that. If he’d pressed his face into his pillow that night and let his eyes sting, his throat get tight, swallowed down all that emotion, well, no one was around to know about it.

So, all in all, it hadn’t surprised Steve that much when Sam, after discovering the intense game of Words with Friends he had going with Nat, had demanded Steve download Spaceteam. Steve had been skeptical reading the description - a fast-paced, cooperative shouting game? - but after sitting in Sam’s living room between him and Nat and shrieking as their ship fell apart around them, Steve was effectively hooked. He decided then and there that Sam’s game recommendations always deserved at least a cursory check. 

Really, it had only been a matter of time before Sam introduced him to higher forms of gaming. Most people seemed to willfully forget that Steve wasn’t even quite 30 yet, in years consciously lived anyway, and did in fact enjoy a little mindless fun sometimes. And mindless fun is absolutely what Sam enthusiastically dragged him into. They started with Minecraft, sitting shoulder to shoulder and mining their way to safety and prosperity. Then onto Lovers in a Dangerous Spacetime, racing around inside their unwieldy spaceship to safely fly past obstacles and enemies alike. 

One day Nat had arrived unannounced, produced a Playstation 3 from places unknown, and plunked the controller into Steve’s hands. He’d played Journey, open mouthed and unblinking, appreciating the art design as readily as the storytelling. Then Limbo, dark and twisted and full of puzzles Steve’s mind had reveled in. The day had wrapped up with Flower, which was less of a game and more of a beautiful day cupped gently in the palms of Steve’s hands. 

And Steve enjoyed all of it. The games occupied his mind and his hands at the same time. They were a way to socialize with Sam without needing to go out in public or actually _talk_ about things. It was all low stress, easy, fun. Steve liked it, but he didn’t really feel the need to run out and buy his own Xbox or Playstation. It was enough just to occasionally kick back next to Sam on his plush sofa and share in an afternoon of casual play. It was enough, until it wasn’t. Until the day Sam dropped the controller into his hands and ran to his kitchen to grovel to his mother for not having called her earlier in the week. 

Steve had watched Sam play a bit of Destiny before, but he’d turned Sam down every time he’d been offered a turn. It was a pretty game, certainly, and Steve had sketched some of the more interesting things he’d seen in it, but he didn’t really understand the appeal. He’d been fighting most of his life, so why would a game about that exact same thing be fun? But then he’d been playing it, leaping around the map and facing down an assortment of strange new enemies and there’d been a person there, somewhere else in the world, on the other side of the TV screen, and suddenly Steve was completely rethinking the game. 

He was rethinking it on his morning runs. Rethinking it during boring meetings at work. Rethinking it as he burned another dinner for himself. He rethought leaping through the air, racing through enemies, culling the evil in the world with none of the stress, none of the scrapes and bruises of the real world. He rethought having a teammate who didn’t put his hackles up and sassed him without thought and laughed easily. He thought about the person who he knew only by voice and found himself wanting to smile. 

Which is how Steve finds himself standing, shoulders hunched and bill of his hat pulled low, in a Gamestop. There’s an entire wall covered in video game cases, helpfully color coded by console. Steve finds himself gravitating toward the lime green of the Xbox and skimming the titles for Destiny. He picks it up, stroking the cover almost reverently, and startles badly when someone starts talking to him. At first he thinks he’s been recognized, but once he starts paying attention to the words, he realizes it’s just an employee trying to help him.

“Sir? Is there anything I can help you with?”

Steve shuffles awkwardly, before tucking the game case firmly against his ribs, like a tight end determined to get the ball to the end zone. He’s determined to bring this game into his life. 

“Yeah,” he says, trying very hard not to let his discomfort push his voice into Captain America territory. Sam has called it his phone voice several times, which is completely inaccurate. Steve’s perfectly comfortable on the phone, thanks very much. “I want to buy an Xbox.”

The employee is a chubby young man with long, thin hair and a bright smile. He scratches at his black polo shirt and beams at Steve’s feet. He looks as awkward as Steve feels.

“A One?” the kids asks. At Steve’s affirmative, he turns on his heel and calls over his shoulder, “I’ll just go grab one from the back.”

Steve kicks at the carpeting while he waits, looking up at the opposite wall at all the console accessories for sale. He needs a headset, but he doesn’t see any that look quite like the one Sam has. Maybe he’ll ask the store clerk for advice. He turns back to the wall of games, scanning for anything else he recognizes from Sam’s small library. There are one or two games he might be interested in, more for the chance to play with Sam than for the games themselves, but Sam’s constant moaning about his disc buying habit gives him pause. Steve can learn to download from the Xbox store like all the other cool kids. He doesn’t need a stack of game cases to rival Sam’s.

The kid comes bustling back onto the sales floor with a green box cradled in his hands. It’s smaller than Steve anticipated, but the picture on the box is clearly the bulky black rectangle that he recognizes from Sam’s house. The sales associate sets the box gently on the counter next to a cash register and, possibly for the first time, actually looks up at Steve’s face. He blinks rapidly and straightens up considerably. 

“Um, can I. Get you anything else. Uh, sir?” he stutters, turning red in the face. Steve winces internally, and pastes on a polite smile. 

“I’d like a headset as well,” Steve says and the kid immediately steps out from behind the counter, gesturing up at the Xbox One compatible options. “I’m not really sure what to get.”

“Okay, uh, well. Turtle Beach is always a good option. Um, depending on the price range you’re looking at,” he trails off, casting a shy glance Steve’s way. Steve shrugs, looking over the listed prices quickly. 

“Less than a hundred?” If he’d brought anyone along with him, he’d feel obligated to comment on exorbitant prices of the modern age, but since he’s alone, he’ll just accept inflation as it is and stay quiet.

“Right, okay, uh. For that price I’d recommend the XO One or the XO Four Stealth. The Four Stealth is a little fancier but, um, they’re also like 20 bucks more.”

“Okay,” Steve says slowly, dragging out the word. He sort of wishes this kid would just pick one for him and be done with it.

“In my experience,” the clerk says quietly, scratching at his nose, “the XO Ones can be a little uncomfortable over your ears. If you plan on playing for more than an hour at a time, they can start to hurt.”

“In that case, I guess I’ll try the Four Stealth,” Steve says. He pulls out his wallet as the cashier plucks up the headset and brings it to the register. He runs Steve through the spiel about warranties and returns, then points out information on the receipt. Steve gathers up his bags and turns to leave, but the kid stops him with a quiet question. 

“Uh, Captain Rogers, sir. Could you, um, sign this for me?” he squeaks, holding out a tattered piece of paper. Steve holds back a sigh, makes himself smile and exchange a few brief pleasantries as he scrawls his name on the paper. The kid was helpful and polite, so he deserves at least the same from Steve. Still, he pulls away and makes a break for it as soon as he feels he’s done his service. 

As he makes his way home, he mentally writes and rewrites the message he plans to send to 360NoScopes. When the name isn’t making him bite back a smirk, he’s trying to figure out the best way to not sound like the desperately lonely person he won’t admit to being. He hopes the other man’s offer to play again sometime was genuine, and not a simple politeness. Sam assures him people are not simply polite on Xbox Live, but still. Steve worries. He’s not even sure why he’s so hung up on this, except it’s so lovely to talk to someone who isn’t thinking about the right thing to say to Captain America. 

Later, when he’s tucked into his couch with his Xbox up and running, he’ll remember the cheery way Scopes had called him “Cap’n Crunch.” He’ll sign up to Xbox Live Gold and smile helplessly at his stupid new gamertag. He’ll send Sam a message about his brand spankin’ new Xbox, complete with as many dumb emoticons as Steve can stand typing. And then he’ll carefully craft a message to some stranger who was kind enough to stick with him, and hope this stranger will become his friend.


	2. Sam makes a bet

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How the hell do you write Sam though????
> 
> I'm so sorry, I barely even proofread this. I'm posting from work because I'm a bad person and I'm going to play Destiny as soon as I get home today haaa. 
> 
> Also idk, I can get behind the idea of Steve eating huge amounts of food, but I've always imagined he'd need to space it out over the course of the day. Like little meals every hour instead of one massive meal 3 times a day. He's got super metabolism, not a super stomach, you know?
> 
> This one starts right where Ch 4 of Matchmaking ends.

Sam rolls up to Steve’s door with an armload of pizza (mostly for Steve) and a six pack of beer (mostly for himself) and realizes he’s made a tactical error. He debates setting the beer down to free up a hand, but really, Sam’s too old for all this bending down shit. Screw being a superhero, somedays Sam feels like he’s about ready for a retirement community. He attempts to juggle dinner for a second, before giving it up. The door will withstand a couple kicks from a regular but attractively buff dude. 

Steve’s yell of joy is muffled by the wall, but when he swings the door open, Sam can’t help but smile fondly at him. It always makes Sam feel a little gooey inside to see the young, exuberant Steve Rogers, so different from the austerity of Captain America or the lonely, quietly depressed man that emerges when he thinks no one can see. The snarky asshole is always present, and Sam will only admit to loving him if under duress. 

“Tell me you love me,” Sam smirks, offering up the pizza. 

“You’re the best,” Steve grins and Sam takes note of the headset very clearly still sitting on Steve’s head. Rolling his eyes fondly (everything with Steve is begrudgingly fond and Sam’s mostly okay with that), Sam passes over the pizza and follows Steve into his kitchen. 

“You still on Destiny?” Sam asks, blindly gesturing toward the controller clutched in Steve’s left hand as he frees a beer for himself and pops the rest in the fridge. Steve hums his affirmation, lifting the lid on a pizza box and inhaling the scent with gusto. 

“Aw,” Sam coos loudly, projecting toward Steve’s mic, “is that Scopes on there? Tell him I say hi and his name is stupid.”

Steve’s attention shifts away from Sam, and the shit eating grin on his face goes all goofy. So, yes, obviously it is Scopes on there. 

“He says he can hear you,” Steve says with a laugh, and Sam chuckles right along with him, even as Steve trots back toward his living room. He can still hear the low rumble of Steve’s voice as he presumably says his goodbyes. 

Once Sam got past his idolization of The Steve Rogers - and oh, how he had idolized him - he realized just how terribly adrift Steve was in the 21st century. On his worst days, the man is a hollow approximation of a human being and on his best days, Steve is terribly busy to keep himself from remembering how deeply sad he is. 

Steve’s voice, high and bubbling with amusement, tumbles into the kitchen. Sam has no idea how a random guy on Xbox Live has become such a ready source of joy in Steve’s life, but hell, Sam’s in no rush to question it. Anyone who can put that crooked, dopey smile on Steve’s face is okay in his book. Even if Scopes is an asshole with a crappy sense of humor. Sam’s tolerant that way. 

Bare feet slapping against the linoleum, Steve comes back into the kitchen, this time noticeably without his headset and controller. He dutifully pulls plates out of his cabinets and grabs a handful of napkins before joining Sam at the table. He’s beaming. 

“Oh, you’re not bringing Scopes to dinner with us?” Sam asks casually. Steve’s head drops back as he groans. 

“Sam,” he says warningly, but the smile is still clearly curling his mouth. 

“You’re right. I would have needed to bring more pizza if he was.”

Steve casts one of those achingly sweet smiles at him. “Thank you, Sam.”

“Nah, man, this is nothing,” Sam waves him off. 

“I’ll buy next time,” Steve shrugs easily. 

“You bet your ass you will,” Sam says, garbled by his mouthful of delicious pizza. 

Steve flicks two fingers in a jaunty salute before starting on his own pizza. They settle into silence so Steve can inhale a couple of slices without interruption. For some reason, Sam had always assumed that Steve would eat a small truckload of foot at each sitting to keep up with all his super body processes, but he’d been wrong. Instead, he’d discovered that Steve was one of those folks who needed to carry granola bars around with him everywhere. He won’t share either. 

So Steve gobbles up a couple slices of pizza and sits back to digest. He’ll be back for more in an hour or so, but for now, the beast is sated. Sam takes a slow swallow of beer.

“So, how’re things at the big bad?”

Steve rolls his eyes. “Shield is great,” he says flatly. Sam cocks a finger gun at him. 

“What are they up to now?”

“More of the same,” Steve grumbles. “Right hand keeping secrets from the left, compromising morals, questionable weapons research.”

He shrugs, clearly annoyed. Most days, Sam wishes they _had_ taken Shield apart when they’d destroyed Insight, if only to ease Steve’s frustration. Since they hadn’t, Sam has made it his personal mission to make sure Steve isn’t completely lost to the system. The amount of food he’s bought to keep up with that mission has definitely put a nice dent in his wallet, but there’s no one else around to keep an eye on Steve. 

It’s not a terribly difficult mission, being a friend for Steve. 

“And you’re right in the mix, aren’t you?”

“Yep,” Steve grins, sharp and mean. “I make the disappointed face at everyone to see who flinches.”

Sam laughs, and Steve’s smile goes warm again. 

“Natasha?”

She’s been keeping low for a good long while now, and Sam honestly misses her, even if he barely knows her. He misses the way Steve settles around her, anyway. 

“Around,” Steve shrugs. “I think she’s keeping an ear out because there’s new information on Loki’s staff. We might have to get the team back together.”

“The Avengers ride again?” Sam jokes, halfway to serious. 

“We’d have to get Thor back here anyway,” Steve says. He picks at his greasy napkin restlessly.

“You know, if you ever need a hand,” Sam offers, gesturing to himself gamely. 

Steve offers a weak half smile. “I know, Sam,” he says gravely. “I think this one has to be the original group.”

“Finish what you started?”

Steve nods. “You wanna watch a movie or something?”

He’s changing the subject, but Sam will allow it. There are a lot of things Steve doesn’t like to talk about, though Sam can’t always pin down why, but he’s here strictly as a friend so he let’s it go. Sam’s not going to pick at Steve until his patience shatters. 

“Sure, man. What’ve you got?”

Steve shrugs, mostly in his eyebrows, just a tiny shift of his right shoulder. 

“Is there anything on your list that we haven’t watched yet?” 

“Have you ever seen Firefly?” Steve asks after a moment, looking anywhere but at Sam. He can’t allow this kind of shifty behavior to go unquestioned. 

“Nah,” Sam shakes his head. “I’ve heard of it, but I’ve never seen it.”

“I’ve been told it’s good,” Steve says as he pushes out of his chair and heads toward his living room. Sam follows after him.

“Yeah? Which well meaning individual told you that?” Sam jokes. Steve gets recommendations all the time and many “good” shows have been anything but.

“Bucky said it was ridiculous but heartfelt,” Steve says absently as he navigates Netflix. Sam feels his eyebrows trying to climb into his hairline.

“Bucky?” He keeps his voice as collected as possible. Steve looks up at him, looking caught.

“Uh, yeah. Scopes asked me to call him Bucky, so I figured I should… practice?” There’s the faintest touch of embarrassment on his face.

“Bucky, huh?” Sam smirks. “With a name like that, it’s no wonder his gamertag is so bad.”

“I know,” Steve laughs, shoulders relaxing a bit. “I teased him about that too.”

“So that’s it? He didn’t ask for your name or anything?”

Steve shakes his head. 

“Oh,” Sam says, thrilled with this turn of events. “Oh Steve. He gave you his real name and didn’t ask for anything in return.”

“I don’t think Bucky is actually his real name,” Steve mutters quietly. Sam ignores him.

“He _likes_ you Steve,” Sam teases, sing songy. “He’s got a little crush. How sweet.”

Steve flushes, eyes dropping to his hands. 

“C’mon, Sam,” he admonishes. “He’s just embarrassed about his gamertag.”

“Nu huh,” Sam chirps. “If he was that embarrassed, he’d change it.”

“It costs money,” Steve points out. 

“Steve,” Sam intones, crossing his arms over his chest, “trust me. He’d find a way if it was that bad.”

Steve’s eyes narrow, assessing. Sam holds his ground. It’s possible Steve is right and Bucky ( _Bucky!!!_ ) is simply embarrassed. But Sam has seen the way Steve’s eyes get soft around the edges when they talk about playing Destiny, the way Steve smiles all lopsided when he’s listening to Bucky talk, the happiness that seems to radiate from Steve when they play together. 

It seems Steve might have a little crush of his own. It’s barely a little fledgling thing right now, but Sam will be damned if he lets it die easily. Steve’s gonna get his obnoxious asshole internet boyfriend if it kills him. 

Steve sighs finally, sitting back. “Sam.”

“Steve,” Sam shoots back, gently mocking.

“That’s not how it is. He doesn’t even know who I am,” Steve mumbles, suddenly weighed down by everything he’s supposed to hold up. 

“Steve,” Sam claps him on the shoulder and hauls him into some hybrid of a half hug and conspiratorial huddle. “I bet you twenty bucks he has a crush on you.”

“Sam,” Steve complains, pushing him away. There’s a reluctant smiling starting across his face.

“Twenty bucks, Steve. That’s a lot of money. Think of all the gum you could buy with that.”

“I don’t even like gum,” Steve yelps, whacking Sam with a couch pillow. Sam snatches the pillow from him and smirks. 

“But you’re gonna need it.” Steve gives him a baffled look. “For your breath. When you’re making kissy faces with Bucky.”

“Oh that’s it,” Steve hisses, before lunging across the couch and brandishing the pillow from the opposite corner. They proceed to smack each other with their chosen weapons until Sam has to concede defeat. He flops onto the couch, clutching his pillow to his chest, and laughs breathlessly. Steve sinks down beside him, barely winded but grinning like a child. Sam gives himself a mental pat on the back. Good work, Sam.

“Steve,” Sam gasps, wondering why all his early morning runs with a superhero haven’t better prepared him for a pillow fight. “Twenty dollars.”

He sticks his hand out, ready to shake on it. Steve’s jaw works furiously for a minute, before he reaches out to seal the deal. 

“Fine,” he says, more seriously than the situation deserves. “You’re on.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the kudos and comments! <33


	3. Steve watches a video

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one is a little short and starts a bit sad, but I think it picks up at the end. I wrote some of this at 3 AM while my hands were still shaking from the adrenaline of beating the raid in Destiny so sorry in advance. I read it a couple times and it seems okay to me, but what do I know? :p
> 
> This chapter takes place a bit after Ch 8 of Matchmaking.

It’s 4 in the morning and Steve’s awake. He’s restless, tossing in bed and huffing his irritation into the dark. He should get up, go clean the bathroom or something. There’s grime building up in the corner of the shower. He rolls over, picks up his phone. He squints at the light. It’s 4:07. He’s going running with Sam in 2 hours. Can cleaning the shower take 2 hours? He rolls onto his back and holds his phone over his face. 

He opens a message to Sam and stares at it. He’s seeing Sam in 2 hours. Maybe he should text Nat. He skims over their message history, nothing but brief check ins, and deliberately types, “why the hell can’t I sleep?” He’s so damn tired. He reads it over and over until his eyes blur, then deletes it. He doesn’t want to wake Nat up. It’s 4:13. He curls on his side, propping his phone up with one hand. 

Agitated, he opens the pictures on his phone and skims through them. He flicks past pictures of Sam post run, bent at the waist and flipping him off, and duck face selfies with Nat that bleed into blurry shots of them curled over themselves in laughter. A couple shots of Nat and Clint making faces at each other and one of Thor flipping Mjolnir glibly. There’s one of himself, headset on and staring at Sam behind the camera with his most unimpressed face. 

And then in the mix, he comes across the handful of sketches he’d deemed worthy to take pictures of. A drawing of skyscrapers in Manhattan, a comparison of a 1940’s Cadillac Series 62 and a 2012 Cadillac CTS, the rounds of Natasha’s eyes, Sam’s wide friendly smile, Tony’s expansive gestures, the little pleased quirk of Clint’s mouth. Mixed in with all of that is the quick, rough sketch Steve had drawn of Sam’s warlock, long before he’d ever touched the game himself. It’s an action shot, warlock leaping through the air with a gun in one hand and a mass of energy gathering in the other, robes fluttering behind him. Steve had been proud of it when he’d finished, the motion and energy in his linework. 

Thinking about Destiny leads him unerringly to thinking about Bucky. It’s almost frightening, how eager Steve is for any scrap of attention Bucky will give him. Steve yearns for Bucky’s regard, wants the easy laughter and the too personal questions. He wants Bucky to dig into those painful spots, to leach the hurt away like lancing a blister. It’s simpler, with Bucky, to shake loose all the deep hurts Steve has endured. Speaking softly into each other’s ears, like whispering, but separated by miles and servers and brightly colored pixels on TV screens. Anonymous confessions and growing affections. 

He blinks twice, noting the time. It’s 4:36 now. He scrubs a hand over his face, torn between laughing and crying. How much of the passing time had he just spent daydreaming about a guy he knows next to nothing about? He chooses to laugh, too loud in the night and rueful, and navigates to Bucky’s Instagram page. Last he’d checked, not so terribly long ago, the most recent picture posted was the night time skyline from Bucky’s room, but now there’s something new. 

The thumbnail is the back of a brunet’s head, shoulders bracketed on either side by the sharp black polish of an upright piano. The comment on the video reads, “i don’t have a lot of time b4 bucky gets back but i need the world to see this. i won’t tell him if u don’t ;P - bucky’s adorable baby sister becca.” Steve grins, charmed already, and presses play. The video starts mid-note, but it only takes Steve a couple seconds to recognize a slowed down version of The Entertainer. Whoever’s holding the camera - Becca, Steve assumes - steps sideways, and zooms in on red knuckled, square tipped fingers brushing over the keys. 

Then the camera lifts, and Steve has to swallow a pathetic little mewl. Bucky in profile is all strong jaw and pouty lips and thick brown hair falling across his temple. He’s not at all what Steve had pictured, but looking at him now, he can see the cocky smirks and laughing smiles. It’s… going to be really tough to focus on Destiny knowing the face attached to that voice.

Bucky’s playing is interrupted by a female voice behind the camera.

“Wow,” she laughs, “so he warrants piano playing huh? Space marine boyf-”

She cuts off with a squeal, as Bucky lunges off the bench and, judging by the shaky footage and hard thunk, tackles her to the ground. 

“Shut up, Becca, oh my God,” Bucky whines. 

“Jesus, Bucky,” Becca groans, as Bucky scrabbles for his phone. “You’re such a fucking child.”

“I wasn’t even-” 

And then the video ends. Steve blinks at his phone for a second before clamping a hand over his mouth and laughing. He feels jittery and breathless with the thrill of it, but also delighted, a fizzy bubble feeling in his chest. He sets his phone on his stomach and lets himself giggle at the ceiling of his dark bedroom. He’s cute. The boy Steve has been maybe but not really probably badly flirting with is _so cute_. Lord, but Steve hopes Sam’s right about Bucky having a crush on him. 

By the terms of their agreement, Steve has to paint something. It’ll have to wait until he gets a chance to buy the materials, so in the meantime, perhaps as a show of good faith, Steve decides to upload a sketch. He immediately rules out the drawings of his friends, unwilling to chance any of them being recognized, and decides with very little difficulty to post Sam’s warlock. Bucky will appreciate it, Steve thinks, and not to toot his own horn, but it _is_ a really nice piece. He uploads the picture, tags Bucky in it, and writes in the comment, “I need paint.” 

Then, feeling a little foolish and too damn happy to care, Steve scrolls back to Bucky’s video.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So first, I cannot play the piano so ???? Apparently there's an easy version of The Entertainer so bam. 
> 
> Second, I looooove Sebastian Stan with longer hair, so that's what Bucky's getting. In this case, I'm thinking the Buzzfeed interview he did, or this picture from August Man Malaysia. 
> 
>  


	4. Natasha drinks a latte

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Natashaaaa!!!! I love her relationship with Steve. It's probably the best thing MCU has given us. Hopefully I didn't completely ruin everything great about them ahaaa. This one takes place right before chapter 10 of Matchmaking.

Steve is smiling. 

It’s not a shocking revelation; Natasha has seen him smile plenty of times. This smile though, it’s different from the others. There’s a lightness to it, a youthful pleasure untouched by the cold reality of life. It’s genuine, she thinks. Steve is honestly happy. 

She sips at her iced latte, legs crossed and eyebrows raised, as his fingers slide across his phone screen. His eyelashes are long and dark over the sharp blue of his eyes. How does he do it? She still hasn’t found a mascara that can match them.

“Enjoying yourself?” she asks, biting if not for the terrible affection she doesn’t bother to hide from him. He starts guiltily, slipping his phone into his pocket and looking up at her. 

“Sorry,” he says, wrapping his fingers around his frozen, chocolate flavored drink because Steve Rogers does nothing by halves, even coffee. “I was checking Instagram.”

“Just like a real Millennial,” Natasha teases. Steve blushes a little, but the smarmy grin he gives her is anything but embarrassed. She taps two fingers against the tabletop. “Anything good? I haven’t checked in a while.”

He shrugs, digging his phone back out of his pocket and unlocking it, before handing it over to her. She almost laughs as she takes it from him. He makes for a terrible Millennial, so unafraid of sharing this piece of himself, even though she knows he doesn’t think of his phone as something intimate. 

(She ignores the little voice in her head whispering about how he deeply he trusts her. They’re not tucked in the bathroom of a near perfect stranger, stripped of their armor and thrown into Hell alone. He should know better by now.)

She flips through the few sketches she hasn’t seen yet, smiling at the encouraging comments anonymous followers have left, completely unaware of who they’re praising. There’s a distinct lack of comments from _the boy_ , however, and nothing newer from him than the piano fiasco video. She tables that little piece of information for later review. 

“Your art is very cute, Steve,” Natasha says, as she hands the phone back to him. He blushes a deep pink, eyes dropping to his hands. 

“It’s nothing really. Just doodles,” he tells the table. 

“Mmhmm,” she hums, poking his shin with the toe of her flats. “Isn’t that why we bought all that paint?”

He laughs, rubbing at his jaw ruefully. Almost shy, Natasha thinks. If Sam hadn’t already told her what the paint was about, she’d probably have a decent guess now. 

“I have no idea what I’m doing,” Steve admits, then gestures to the plastic bag of paints and supplies they’d picked out earlier. “Paint wasn’t the easiest thing to come by, before.”

Natasha reaches across the table to give his hand a squeeze. If she’s not reading him wrong, and as she’s always happy to point out, she seldom does, that first statement is about more than painting a picture. Despite her efforts, Steve hasn’t had any romantic entanglements since they pulled him out of the ice and, if history is to be believed, not many before that anyway. She can understand his trepidation, especially in this new century where his every move is scrutinized and Steve Rogers dating a man would be on the news docket for far longer than it should be. Natasha can only imagine the amount of fretting Steve has done over the idea. 

“You’ll be great,” she insists, giving his hand another squeeze. She looks him square in the eye, trying to instill in him the stalwart strength and confidence he’s inspired in her over the past few years. His eyelashes flutter briefly before his jaw tightens, and Natasha hides a smile. That’s the Steve she knows, shoulders even and jaw set, always pushing forward. 

“I’ll try,” Steve says firmly. 

“Good,” Natasha smiles, sitting back in her chair and sipping her latte. She watches Steve from under lowered eyelids. He picks at the lid of his drink absently, but not pensive like she’s used to. She remembers him looking solemn, always braced as if he was carrying something heavy. For a time she’d thought it was the heft of Captain America, then maybe the weight of all that ice and water he’d been buried under, still holding him down. Maybe it was both of those things, or maybe neither. She’s started thinking it might just be Steve, that maybe he’s always taken on a burden too big for his shoulders, no matter their size. 

It’s nice to see him looking so free, like there’s so little weighing him down, he might float away at any moment. He’s still picking at his disposable cup, attention turned inward. 

“Too sweet?” she asks, gesturing with her own drink at his. He blinks at her, turning his attention outward again. 

“Oh, no,” he says, taking a sip as if to prove her wrong. “Just thinking. How’s New York been?”

“Good,” Natasha shrugs. “We miss you.”

She watches him work through the possible candidates, trying to pinpoint who at the new Avengers compound would feel his absence. His eyes narrow as he comes to a conclusion. 

“I doubt Tony misses me,” Steve snorts. 

“Don’t be so sure,” Natasha chuckles, twirling her straw. Tony, she thinks, could probably do with Steve’s steady presence more than any of the rest of them, although having Col. Rhodes around has helped. Ultron shook Tony’s already precarious foundation more than he likes to let on. “Wanda would probably appreciate having you around.”

“Wanda? Why?” Steve frowns. He looks a charming combination of baffled and prepared to knock out anyone who’s given her a hard time. 

“Well,” Natasha says, tapping her lip thoughtfully. “You’re probably better suited to giving pep talks than anyone else.”

Steve rolls his eyes, a smile tucked in the corner of his mouth. “I’m pretty sure she thinks I’m a condescending prick who willingly represents everything wrong with the world.”

“No, that’s definitely Tony,” Natasha says blandly and is rewarded with a little laugh. Steve sobers quickly, leaning forward with concern pinching his brows.

“How is she, really?”

“She’s,” Natasha sighs, looking for the words to sum up Wanda Maximoff. “She’s trying. She’ll make a brilliant addition to the team but… She misses her brother.”

Steve’s expression turns painfully sympathetic. “But she’s getting along with everyone? She’s taking care of herself?”

“She’s doing alright,” Natasha nods. “She could use a friend.”

Steve’s lips twist, a bit sour, but he nods. “That’s understandable,” he murmurs and Natasha senses his discomfort with their similarities, so she pushes the conversation elsewhere. 

“How’s DC been?”

“Fine,” Steve shrugs. 

“Still keeping an eye on Shield?” Natasha asks, letting her displeasure color her voice. 

Steve’s answering smirk is razor sharp. “Always.”

“Good,” she says and they nod at each other, understanding. “And Sam?” 

Tension drains out of Steve immediately and his smile is wide. Natasha hardly needs to ask about Sam; the two have been corresponding on a near weekly basis ever since Steve met his boy online. It’s pure gossip, but it’s been nice to hear about the changes their mystery man has unwittingly wrought in Steve. 

“Sam’s good,” Steve says, all smiles. “He’s still at the VA, but I think he misses his wings. He’s asked about seeing the Avengers compound a couple times.”

Natasha feels a plan starting to come together in her mind. Getting Steve to New York isn’t going to be a problem. Getting him to talk to Wanda won’t be difficult either - he’ll feel compelled as soon as he sees her. No, the hard part is getting Steve to take that next step with his internet boy. Seeing him face to face, coming clean about his identity and all that entails. He wants to, according to Sam, but Natasha can see Steve taking a step away from this, to spare everyone the supposed trouble. 

“Bring him,” Natasha says. “You can check in on Wanda and make sure the team is working the way you like while you’re there.”

Steve huffs a laugh, scuffing his hand over the short buzzed hairs along the side of his head. “Yeah, I guess I should check in on the team, too.”

Natasha smiles. Now it’s time to implement her split second plan. “Good. You can save us from Tony’s ego while you’re at it.”

Steve’s eyebrows quirk upward. “What’s he doing now?”

“You know about Comic-Con, right?” she asks. Steve sends her an incredulous look, but nods anyway. “There are rumors that some of New York’s local heroes are going to be attending, and Tony keeps going on and on about how _he’s_ a local hero too.”

“He cares about that?” Steve asks, eyes squinted like this is a difficult problem he’s trying to work out. She has to bite back a laugh. If some local level hero showed up in Brooklyn and started calling it their territory, Steve would be all over it. Still, he’s hooked now and all she has to do is reel him in. 

“You know Tony,” she shrugs. “He likes the attention.”

Steve makes a face at her, begrudgingly amused, so she stretches her leg under the table to kick at his ankles. He doesn’t take it lying down this time. Quick, and with very little warning, he gets his legs around hers, pressing his calves tight around her ankle. 

“Are you playing footsies with me, Rogers?” Natasha teases, tipping forward to lean against the table. Steve mimics her.

“Maybe I am,” he grins, a sparkle in his eyes. 

“I’m pretty sure there’s a young man in New York who’d be terribly upset to find out you’re playing footsies with someone other than him,” Natasha says, serious but gentle. Steve rocks back, expression carefully blank, and the tension in his legs eases until Natasha can free herself effortlessly. Instead of pulling away completely, she slouches in her chair and kicks her ankle up onto Steve’s knee like a foot rest. She crosses her other leg over and watches Steve’s shrewd eyes watching her. 

“Did Sam tell you?” he asks calmly, one hand coming to curl softly around her ankle. 

“I have my ways,” she says, smirking. Steve’s fingers tap against her leg. “Okay, Sam told me.”

“I should have figured,” Steve sighs, eyes on the table again. Natasha jiggles her foot in his grip, calling his attention upward. 

“You know, if you’d said something before, I’d have suggested you try Kyle from HR. He’s pretty cute,” Natasha says with a crooked smile. 

“He’s the redhead?” Steve asks. Natasha quirks an eyebrow. 

“You have a problem with redheads?”

Steve grins, giving her leg a little shake. “I like ‘em just fine, but they’re not really my type.”

“Brunettes more your style?” Natasha smirks. Steve laughs, pointing an enamored smile at the table. Pink settles across his face as he plops his chin into his free hand.

“I do seem to have a weakness for brunettes,” Steve admits, grinning crookedly. Natasha pulls her feet from his lap, settling them on the floor so she can lean across the table. He straightens up automatically and Natasha meets his eyes.

“Steve,” she says seriously, “please take a chance on this guy. Don’t sabotage yourself before you even try.”

“Nat,” he says, almost whining. 

“You have smiled more today than you have in all the time I’ve known you.”

She watches his expression churn from irritated to apprehensive. He folds his hands together, rubbing his thumb over his index finger. Tension tightens up his shoulders, and Natasha recognizes the unseen burden he carries around settle back in. She purses her lips. He’d been so relaxed throughout their entire coffee break.

“I don’t know what to do, Nat,” he concedes softly. 

“Don’t shy away if you get an opportunity,” Natasha asserts. “Jump right in, like it’s a fight.”

He chuckles, subdued. “I don’t know.”

“Kill two birds with one stone,” Natasha urges. “Come to New York, whip the Avengers back into shape. Then steal Tony’s thunder by making a surprise visit to Comic-Con yourself. And if your boy-”

“Bucky,” Steve interrupts. “His name is Bucky.”

Natasha smiles. She already knew that, of course, but she can’t help the rush of warmth she feels hearing it directly from Steve.

“And if _Bucky_ happens to have plans to meet up with his online friend at Comic-Con, well.” She makes a wide gesture at the table, almost like she’s laying out a map. She looks up to see Steve frowning.

“Are you sure?”

Natasha steeples her fingers. “Steve, I promise. Just mention Comic-Con. If it doesn’t end with you invited to New York for that weekend, I’ll personally buy you dinner for a week.”

On cue, Steve’s stomach rumbles petulantly. Their eyes meet across the table and they both burst into laughter. 

“You know me too well,” Steve complains cheerfully. 

“I know you ran out of granola bars to snack on hours ago,” Natasha returns playfully. “You figure out where we’re going to get food. I’m going to the ladies’ room.”

Steve gives her a shamelessly sloppy salute and she smiles the whole way to the bathroom. As soon as the door shuts behind her, she yanks out her phone and starts a message to Sam.

To Sam:  
if steve says anything about comic con in the near future, you need to encourage him to go

To Sam:  
be the pushy mother he clearly still needs

Sam replies shortly.

From Sam:  
comic con huh? That’s gonna make for one hell of a first meeting

From Sam:  
i got you tho. phase 1 of operation get rogers laid is a go

Natasha smirks deviously, locking her phone. This is going to be such fun.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Little shout out to the Marvel Netflix crew. I'm hype as hell for Punisher and I've got my fingers crossed for a future Heroes for Hire series. Also I'm just laughing to myself about Matt Murdock, Jessica Jones, and Luke Cage trying to not look completely uncomfortable and out of place at Comic-Con sorry. (RIP Danny Rand maybe I'll squeeze you in someday in the future.)


	5. Steve signs his name

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IT LIVESSSS. 
> 
> Here's to 1/2 of our dynamic duo getting proactive. The other half is going to get his ass kicked. Stayed tuned for that. ;)

They’re both watching him pityingly. Unsurprising, really, if he looks half as awful as he feels. It’s probably ridiculous to be so out of shape over Bucky’s curt behavior last they’d talked, but Steve can’t quite chivy himself out of his self made misery. He’s not usually one to linger over past mistakes, but Steve wishes he could go back and keep his stupid mouth shut. The sweet agony of wanting and not knowing was so much better than this. 

Sam’s beer bottle chinks against the countertop quietly, and Steve drags his attention up from his study of his hands. Natasha has one elbow on the table, chin propped in her hand. Sam is standing next to the stove with his hands on his hips, his stern but attentive face on. Steve sighs, bracing himself for their two pronged assault. 

“Steve,” Natasha says, inviting him to talk, though he has no idea what he’s supposed to say. “I’m a huge fuck up,” maybe. 

“You look like crap, man,” Sam points out. 

“It’s nothing,” Steve stubbornly maintains. “I’m fine.”

Natasha plants her hand on the table and leans closer threateningly. “Spill, Rogers.”

“We’re your friends,” Sam says, gentle and a little sad. “You can talk to us.”

This is some good cop, bad cop bullshit and Steve would absolutely call them on it, except he’s just sort of tired and uninterested in the inevitable fight. 

“It’s really stupid,” Steve stalls, because it’s just not in him to give in so easily. “I shouldn’t be this bothered by it, honestly. There are people around the world dealing with much worse situations and I’m-”

“Let me stop you right there,” Sam interrupts loudly, holding one palm up toward Steve. “Right now, we’re not concerned about everyone else. We’re concerned about Steve Rogers.”

“This is about Bucky,” Natasha says confidently, sitting back and folding her arms over her chest. 

“No shit,” Sam mutters lowly. Louder, he asks, “What happened? You two were like peas in a pod last I knew.”

“Do I need to pay him a visit?” Natasha asks, something dark and maybe a little excited at the prospect spreading over her face. 

“You don’t even know where he lives,” Steve scoffs, even knowing that it hardly qualifies as an obstacle for her. Heaving a sigh, Steve caves. They’re going to get it out of him either way, and the casserole in the oven is starting to smell too good to maintain his silence. “I said something that hurt him.”

Sam and Nat watch him expectantly. When the silence stretches long enough Sam shrugs, hands palms up in front of him. “Yeah, and? It’s you, so I imagine you apologized.”

“Yeah, I did, but,” Steve shrugs helplessly. Usually when he has to make amends, he's face to face with the injured party, and it’s so much easier to gauge the situation with that contact. Having to do so strictly through a headset is surprisingly difficult. It doesn’t matter how sincere he looks if Bucky can’t see him. 

(Which is, in a roundabout way, sort of the root of the whole problem.)

“So what?” Sam asks, voice carefully neutral. “He didn’t forgive you?”

“He didn’t really give me a chance to say anything at all,” Steve offers. He chances a look across the table. Sam is frowning, but Natasha looks about ready to hitch the next ride to New York. “It’s not his fault,” Steve rushes to say. “I’m the one who messed up-”

“Steve,” Nat interrupts flatly. 

“Alright look,” Sam says, peering at the control panel of the oven. “This casserole’s got ten minutes. You’re going to tell us the whole story, unabridged, and then we’re going to enjoy Mama Wilson’s famous chicken mac and cheese casserole, made by yours truly. Capiche?” 

Steve pinches the bridge of his nose. He hates needing their help, but it’s so nice to have someone else’s perspective. He takes a deep, centering breath and makes himself meet both of their eyes in turn. He folds his hands together on top of the table, and spills the whole damn can of beans. When he gets to the end, he awaits their judgement like they’re the Supreme Court and he’s accused of mass murder. 

“Alright,” Sam mumbles, nodding. “Okay.”

“You are both so stupid,” Natasha says affectionately. Steve would like to argue that, but Natasha is usually correct in her assessments of people. 

“Right?” Sam agrees, casting a _look_ at Natasha. She quirks both eyebrows back at him. Sam rounds on Steve. “Okay, yeah, you were kind of stupid. Your word choice maybe leaves something to be desired, but, man, he sure as hell wasn’t trying to fix anything.”

“But I’m the one...” Steve starts, letting the sentence trail off when he notices the twin disapproving stares. Natasha mimes pulling a zipper across her lips. Obviously, they know more about this than he does. He clamps his jaw shut and gestures for Nat to continue. 

“You slipped up,” Natasha tells him with a shrug. “You hurt his feelings maybe. But you apologized and wanted to clarify. He’s the one that wouldn’t let you.”

“That’s on him,” Sam says, picking up the thread. “He needs to suck it up and actually talk it out.”

“I don’t think he’s interested in talking with me at the moment,” Steve mutters. 

Natasha rolls her eyes. “Then he’s a child.”

Sam winces at Natasha’s blunt appraisal, then sets both palms on the table and leans toward Steve. “Then give him some space to sort himself out, but don’t walk away either. Send him a message or draw him a damn picture, I don’t know. Just tell him in clear, concise words that you’re willing to talk it out as soon as he’s ready.”

“Preferably sooner than later,” Natasha tacks on. Steve, finally, allows himself to duck his head. He’s embarrassed by the whole situation, honestly, but he’s also touched by the steadfast affection and support he’s received from these two people. He’s not sure what he would do without Natasha’s uncanny ability to read and redirect his moods, or Sam’s endless understanding and offers of comfort food. Even if Steve’s idea of comfort food still runs more along the lines of “having any food at all.”

He’s saved from gushing about how much he loves them by the oven’s shrill ding. Immediately Sam whirls into action, donning a pair of truly hideous oven mitts and pulling the baking dish out. The three of them are on the food like starving dogs, and it’s no time at all before they’re all sitting around the table with full bellies. 

The topic of Steve’s frankly pathetic love life is conspicuously absent from their mealtime chatter, for which Steve is grateful. Instead they talk about silly, easy things, joking and laughing their way through the next couple hours of the evening. It feels good, and even though Steve is exhausted from all the social interaction, he’s still sorry to see his friends making their way out. 

“I’m headed back to New York,” Natasha says, pulling on her flats in the doorway. 

“I guess I’ll see you there, then,” Steve says. Nat straightens up with a smile, resting a hand on his bicep for balance and rising on tiptoe to kiss his cheek. 

“You’ll be alright, Steve,” Natasha asserts confidently. “We’ll see you through this, no matter how it turns out, okay?”

Steve nods, clearing his throat so his voice doesn’t come out all choked up. “Thank you, Nat.”

She smiles, patting his arm once and stepping away. She leans around him to address Sam, trying to funnel all his kitchen and cooking supplies into his bag. Why he insists on bringing his own things when he could just use Steve’s is a continuing mystery. 

“See you, Sam,” Natasha calls with a sultry smirk and a wink. Then she’s out the door. 

“Alright man,” Sam says, patting Steve on the back as an excuse to balance against him while he slips on his sneakers. He thinks he’s being subtle, but Steve knows. 

“Thank you for coming,” Steve says as Sam inches around him in the tiny entryway. His bag smacks into Steve’s hip, and after being repositioned, the opposite wall. 

“I’m serious, alright?” Sam says, jabbing a finger into Steve’s chest. “Talk to him. You like him, he obviously likes you. Don’t let a silly misunderstanding mess all that goodness up.”

Steve smiles at the floor, a little self conscious. “I’ll talk to him.”

“Good,” Sam nods. “You’re a catch, Rogers. I just have a rule about dating people with wider shoulders than me, ya know?”

Steve laughs, rolling his eyes. “Goodbye, Sam,” Steve snorts, pushing him out the door. Sam cackles, turning around to blow Steve a kiss before disappearing down the hall. 

Clinging to the light, easy mood in his apartment, Steve rustles up his nearest sketchbook and diligently sets out to draw something for Bucky. He sketches late into the evening, until he’s pleased with the product, then snaps a picture of it with his phone. He uploads it to Instagram, tagging Bucky and carefully typing out a simple, precise message. 

“I’m sorry, Buck,” it says. “Please give me a chance to explain.”

Steve chews on his blunt thumbnail. Something about the message feels too impersonal to him. He debates with himself for a few minutes before coming to a conclusion. With slow, deliberate strokes, he signs the message, “Steve,” and posts before he can take it back. It’s a perfectly generic first name, he reminds himself, and Bucky’s going to find out eventually anyway. What’s a little hint here or there?

Fingers crossed that he hasn’t made a mistake, Steve finishes cleaning up after his guests and forces himself relax for the rest of the evening. The ball is in Bucky’s court now.


	6. Sam has a plan

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> omg I'm the worst I'm so sorry it's been so long since I've updated this. 
> 
> I'm going to tentatively call this the last chapter of Rebuild all Your Ruins. It's just a short one about Steve and Co. prepping for NYCC. Idk how I feel about this honestly but I had to get something down. I rewrote this chapter like 4 times so now I'm just Audi 5000. 
> 
> The good news is, I've started writing the next chapter of Matchmaking, so hopefully we'll have the boys meeting soon! I'm planning on 2 more chapters of Matchmaking so things will be (mostly) wrapping up soon. Hope you enjoy this hot mess?? :)

Sam watches the Kinect struggle to figure out the appropriate framing for their shot, zooming comically at Steve’s shoulder and then the top left corner of his massive head. It finally settles, pulling out until the couch is entirely in view. Sam’s never actually used Skype on his Xbox before, but a growing boy like Steve probably needs more room to flail than crowding around his laptop would give them. 

If they also get to see Natasha up close and personal on his TV screen, well, Sam isn’t one to complain. At least not about attractive women who can kick his ass six ways to Sunday.

Steve is moping on the other end of the couch, studiously ignoring Sam as he plays Flappy Bird or some shit on his phone. He’s embarrassed, but not in the “this is actually really hurting my emotional and mental well being” way. More like the “I can’t believe you’re my friend you charming asshole” way, which yes, obviously. Sam is without a doubt the most charming person in this relationship. Besides, Steve will get on board once he realizes Operation: Xbox Boyfriend is going to get him laid by the nerdy white boy he’s been pining over ridiculously for much too long. 

Natasha calls and Sam answers, leaning forward with a grin despite himself. He’s not actually sure where he stands with her. He’s not Mr. Perfect Steve, but he’d like to think Natasha trusts him enough to call him a friend. They’ve certainly been sending enough text messages back and forth for it, plotting how to get Steve safely in and out of Comic-con. 

“Hey fellas,” Natasha greets them, waggling her fingers. Steve smiles, waving back to her. How is that fair? Natasha is at least half responsible for this Comic-Con mess but somehow Sam is the bad guy? Rude. 

“Hi Nat,” Steve says brightly, all the mope gone from him. Sam sends him the stink eye. 

“Hey,” Sam says, getting down to business immediately. This op is way more important than pleasantries. An enclosed space full of sweaty, passionate fans? Way worse than a HYDRA facility. At least you can shoot HYDRA in the face and pat yourself on the back for a job well done. Fans, not so much. “How’s the plan going?”

Natasha smirks. “Well Tony is thrilled to continue slandering Steve on Twitter.”

“Wouldn’t it be libel?” Steve mutters absently. He’s back to petulantly playing Flappy Bird. 

“Don’t be pedantic,” Natasha warns fondly. 

“So no one believes Comic-Con’s official statement that Cap isn’t a guest?”

Natasha shrugs like it’s obvious. “It’s Tony.”

“Good,” Sam nods firmly. “So the first part of sneaking this loser in is going well.”

“I don’t like that neither of you will tell me the plan,” Steve grumbles. “I’m a good strategist. The books all say so.”

“We know darling,” Natasha says consolingly, although she’s smirking wickedly. “But espionage is more my skillset.”

Steve shuffles, turning subtly away from Sam and the camera both. What a baby. Natasha plops her chin into her upturned palm, clearly amused. 

“Are you pouting?” Sam asks, prodding Steve in one massive shoulder. Seriously, how does he support shoulders that wide on a waist that narrow? It makes no sense. 

“I’m not pouting,” Steve whines. He’s totally pouting. It’s precious. 

“We’re going to hide you in plain sight,” Natasha says, sighing like she’s been left with a massive burden. Steve turns back to the Kinect seriously. 

“Is that going to work?” he questions. “People recognize me pretty easily these days.”

“Back in my day,” Sam teases in his best rickety old man voice. Steve swats at him but keeps his eyes on the TV. 

“Are you doubting me?” Natasha asks, quirking an eyebrow. Steve shrugs. “Okay, then,” she says. “Tony whips the fanboys into a frenzy and all the Cap cosplayers in the world show up at Comic-Con. We toss you into a suit and set you loose and you’re just another Cap fanboy disappointed the man himself didn’t show.”

She sits back and folds her arms over her chest, looking smug. Boom, mic drop. 

“That’s it?” Steve snorts, clearly unimpressed. 

“Yes,” Natasha says simply. “No one will expect the actual Steve Rogers to be wandering around on the floor with all the fanboys, so no one will see Steve Rogers. They’ll see a very dedicated cosplayer.”

Steve turns a disbelieving frown Sam’s way. “Dude,” Sam says, holding his hands up in surrender, “the super spy says this will work. Who am I to doubt her?”

“Steve,” Natasha says, in her low, no nonsense voice. “This will work. Plus, you’ll have us for back up.”

“Yeah?” Steve huffs. Still not completely convinced, then. “Are you dressing up as yourselves too?”

Natasha smirks. “Maybe.”

“So that’s the whole plan? Captain America goes undercover as Captain America?”

“That’s it,” Natasha nods. 

“Well, you need to find out when and where your boy wants to meet, but yeah,” Sam agrees. 

Steve shakes his head. “I can’t believe the plan is essentially suit up and hope for the best.”

“We’re not gonna make you wear an actual suit,” Sam says. “You don’t want to look like too much of an overachiever.”

“Don’t worry,” Natasha breezes. “We’ve got that figured out too.”

Steve squints at the TV screen suspiciously, but Natasha’s easy smirk is completely inscrutable. He turns the same look on Sam. 

“You’re gonna look great man,” Sam assures him. “No worries, I’m sure your boy will love the booty shorts and tights look.”

Steve’s face pinches in, like he’s in sudden pain. “Not the USO number,” he groans. “Please, anything but that.”

Sam waggles his eyebrows, throwing a smarmy wink Natasha’s way. She grins exaggeratedly and gives him a huge, overeager thumbs up. 

Operation: Xbox Boyfriend. Who knew tormenting Steve in the name of love would be _so much fun?_


End file.
